


L'Amoureux

by Dreadful Weather Today (TearoomSaloon)



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Bittersweet, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Heartache, Hurt/Comfort, oh what fun tags
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-08
Updated: 2014-07-08
Packaged: 2018-02-07 23:58:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1919025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TearoomSaloon/pseuds/Dreadful%20Weather%20Today
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She washed off the tear streaks for the countless night in a row. With thunder above her and cold feet below her, she couldn't bear the pressure much longer. On her side of the house, she guarded her weapons. On her side of the house, she protected him in absence. </p><p>On his side of the house, he watched longingly out the window, attempting to accept his small realizations. Attempting to figure out this emotional puzzle they'd gotten tangled in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	L'Amoureux

**Author's Note:**

> Jade thought she could be mean but now we shall see who writes sadder material.  
> (hint it's me)

The rain poured down the shingles of the small cottage, the occupants on either side of the house. Thunder roared above, but it was dim and muted within the walls. The air felt stuffy inside, as if the windows hadn't been opened in years, dust and hot breath collecting into pools of clear steam and ash, floating up until there was no more up to float.

The woman who'd taken up fort on the left side, the side by the lake, was drying her cheeks in the bathroom mirror. Her face was puffier than the storm clouds, her beautiful blue eyes stained a red from all the crying. She hadn't intended to crack but, she reasoned, there was little else to do. Here she was, stuck in the far northern woods with a dragon standing guard at the only door. However, if you asked him, he would say  _she_  was the horrid gatekeeper, keeping him locked up with her and her ice.

Icy. He'd called her  _icy_. Her,  _her_ , the emotional of the pair. The one who couldn't hold in the tears. She plunked down on the toilet bowl and buried her face in her hands, knowing the second wave was crashing against her skin. The wave of despair, of hopelessness. She wasn't ever going to win this argument, this quarrel neither would—could—drop.

She had all the medicine on her side of the house, all the pills, the knives, the rope, anything with an edge, anything too heavy, anything blunt. She was scared, so scared of losing. Losing the battle didn't just mean  _losing the battle_ , but losing the prince.

 _You can't, can't do this. You cannot leave me alone,_  she screamed the first night, her throat hot and boiling. It constricted around her words, choking her plea.  _I won't let you_.

 _So you'll starve me, then? Is that how you want me to go? Rotted and spent?_ There had been a crackle in his voice, a spark like lightning in July. Looking back, she could see the fear in his stance, the fear of something unknown. Before, he'd never appeared like that. Before, he relished the idea. Before, he didn't have something to care for. But now he had her.

 _No!_  She didn't drop to her knees, then. She didn't drop to her knees once, not until she left his sight.  _I don't want you to go._

 _You're lying. If not to me, then to yourself. Look where you are, look what I've done. You can_ taste _the diagnosis, can't you?_  He then turned his back to her, and he never faced her after.

They argued through doors. She was silently glad, knowing he couldn't see how torn he made her, how broken the though of him gone was making her psyche. She hated this prince of monsters with all her might, but—

She hugged her knees to her chest, choking out a sob. She couldn't hate him, not fully. Little slivers of his rotten, hollow heart had pierced hers, and they stayed there, brooding, until she was infected with his cankerous love. It opened sores in her flesh, carved out lesions, bleeding hard enough to run down the shower drain. Cuts and bruises and scrapes; abrasions on her shins, lacerations on her waist. Always bleeding, bleeding out her red blood, his blackened ichor too deep inside her to wash out.

Standing up on her shaky legs, she left and turned out the light, retreating to the bed she made out of the living room sofas. Makeshift, since he had the only bedroom (for the stairs were on his side). What had he expected to do with one bedroom and two inhabitants, anyway? The prospect looked worse now; her with her bandaged arms and him with his torn leg. She wondered how he was treating it after she took away everything he could use to harm himself. All the medical kits, all the ibuprofen, all the tight bandages and ace clips. She wiped more moisture from her eyes, tucking under the large blanket and numerous sheets.

 _If only you could love me_ , she had whispered through the oak.  _If only we could lie and make this better._

 _Would you do that, for me?_  he had asked, his voice corrupted by the wood.  _Are you capable of being so selfless where I will be so selfish?_

 _I don't know_. She didn't.  _But it's worth a shot, isn't it?_

_No. It's not. Good night, Alana._

Sweet dreams, fair prince.

 

 

There was little to do but watch the storm roll across the water. Up in his castle of stone and mortar, the dragon prince sulked. High in the tower, there was no entertainment, not relief from boredom, and he was stuck with his thoughts. He would not sit on bathtub edges and weep—that was a princess sort of thing to do, he decided. He was not above brooding, and brood he did, a fine scowl set on his thin lips.

He wanted to die. He wanted to cut from this existence and free himself, free this tortured soul from its chained body and live through death. He detested being caged; it sucked the life from his fingers and the vigor from his toes. He wanted to go with dignity and cause, and he could expire to neither. Not now, after she'd taken all his toys away.

Why did she still care? Hadn't he damaged her enough? Hadn't he broken her over and over again, snapping weak points every time her bones healed over? Hadn't he been the  _worst_  lover to her, making her cry and hurt and suffer?

Hadn't he?

He dabbed at the corner of an eye, displeased. She kept him in this world, by both trying and not. Even if she'd let him a small blade, he wouldn't harm himself. He couldn't harm himself. He never hurt her on purpose, and the idea of her finding him stung through his core.

 _Aren't you finished with me?_  he asked her through the bathroom door.  _Aren't you finished with the suffering I've caused?_

_I want to be._

It wasn't a no, and it wasn't a yes. And as the storm mocked his temper across the sky, he tasted the iron of the conversation on his tongue. The blood. The blood he drew from biting his cheek to keep from losing even a fraction of his temper, to yell and  _command_  her to give him up. He didn't want such a white dove to dirty her feathers with him, to get soaked in his inky blackness. He wanted her happy and full of pure love, not for him. He couldn't have nice things—not as nice as her—and he didn't  _deserve_  such a woman. He, master of his universe, king of his realm, did not deserve her. Months ago he would have chuckled at the thought that  _he_  were undeserving of  _anything_ , but now he knew better.

He rose from his spot on the floor, stepping carefully to the bed. He was broken now, in body and mind. His injury needed a hospital's equipment, something he didn't have. He didn't want to live a half life, whether that be from a damaged leg or a missing smile, he didn't want it.

He wanted the corners of her eyes to crinkle upon seeing his face, her white teeth bright under a grin of red lips. He didn't care if he ever touched her intimately again; just a strand of her hair between his fingers was enough. Just that golden rush upon seeing her happy, that was enough.

He could let her fly off, let her disappear, if that would make her happy. He could be happy with her happiness, and feed off it like a butterfly on sugar water.

It wasn't worth a shot because it wasn't pretend, not for him. He couldn't pretend to love her—he already did, he realized with a sinking fear. A fear that she'd never reciprocate like she once had. He didn't scare easily, but this idea unnerved him like no other.

 

 

She rose prematurely to a creak on the floor. She left the lamp off, allowing the storm to cast light into the dim room. His back leaned against the sofa, his hands in his lap. He looked straight ahead, towards the fireplace.

"We have rules," she said quietly, her voice hoarse.

"I couldn't sleep. It's too cold."

"Take my blanket."

"No, thank you."

"Then leave." She hated how ragged her tone was, how thick her words came out. "I have nothing else to give you."

"You have much to give but little to share. I'm so greedy that I took it all from you, did I not?"

She nodded slowly, eyes beginning to burn. "Every last drop."

"And now you are empty and I am full." He turned to her, looking at her for the first time in weeks. "I'd like to be half and half, if that's all right with you."

"I don't understand."

"I have all of your love and you have none of mine. I will give you half of yours back, if you will take half of mine."

"No, keep it."

He looked dismal at her words, a painful line drawn across his mouth. He turned away. "I will give you all of yours, and then I'll disappear. I won't call you, I won't see you. I'll vanish, and you can forget about this mess as best you can."

"No."

"Then  _what?_ "

"Keep mine, but in exchange, give me yours,  _all_  of yours. I don't want  _half_  your love, I want all of it." She drew a hand across her eyes, wiping the tears from his sight. "If you can even manage an iota of what I gave you."

"I can manage a galaxy." He glanced back ruby eyes obsidian in the night rain. "I can manage  _every_  galaxy, for you. I've never given any of it away before, not in years. If you want my heart, take it, but please be gentle; it's still raw."

"Raw from what?"

"Bleeding."

He rose slowly, making to vanish upstairs. "It's not worth pretending if neither of us will pretend," he said slowly, and she recalled the conversation. "For once in my life, I want to tell the truth."

She held out a hand. "It's not good for your leg to go up and down so much. Stay."

"Where do you suggest I sleep?"

"Here, with me." She chucked a few pillows from her throne. "There's room."

"Are you sure you want that?"

"Just for your wound."

He nodded. "Just for my wound."

There was little extra space and he took liberties, she noticed, by holding her close to his chest. They hadn't touched in weeks, but now every part of them was touching. She felt safe in his great arms, protected from the rumbling of the storm and the harshness of the wind. Piling the blankets over their shoulders, he snuggled closer, and she would swear she felt the smallest dampness on the cheek nearest her forehead.

With a gentle smile—for she was always gentle—she rubbed a faint wetness from the corner of his eye before drawing her arms around his strong frame. "I do love you, dearly. And I have through this whole fight."

"That's why it hurt to see you so much. Pointless suffering has never pleased me."

"Did you love me through it?"

He gave her a tiny smile she couldn't see, pressing his lips to her forehead. "More than a galaxy."

"Can I sleep in your bed tomorrow night?"

"We'll talk in the morning. Sweet dreams, fair princess."

**Author's Note:**

> heeeeeey comments telling me how much this hurt are fun


End file.
